


They May Be Words You've Heard Me Say Before, But This Time I Hope They Mean More (In A Song)

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: History Boys (2006), History Boys - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Drabble Collection, Duet, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Future Fic, Growing Old Together, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Old Married Couple, Piano, Poetic, Romance, Sappy, Singing, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-07-24 22:05:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16184102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: Posner and Scripps; snapshots in song.A little collection of drabbles and ficlets inspired by music- rating and warnings subject to change.





	1. Lovely, The Brilliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhhhhh I just got some really fucking nice comments and felt inspired and wanted to write more Scosner so here I am.
> 
> Basically, I've thrown together a [playlist of songs for these sappy nerds](https://open.spotify.com/user/lilyenrenn/playlist/0OweFDlfLfdc5plksHsXSm?si=BEfR-okeT2aQLGsLT5yhJA) and I want to write lots of little fics based on the individual songs because I think it's an opportunity for a rich tapestry of sincere little moments. This isn't 'song fic' per se, as it's likely only a couple of the chapters (including the first one) will actually include lyrics of the song/have the song be part of the action, but it's very much music-inspired. The chapters will be titled after the name of the song and the band performing it- and the overall title comes from _A Song to Come Home To_ by Jinkx Monsoon and Major Scales. 
> 
> So I hope you enjoy this first little snippet- it takes place about 30 years after the film, almost present day, and I got right sappy writing it <3

_ “The world gets warmer here when I’m with you… My heart gets hopeful, and I sing this little tune…” _

 

Posner’s voice floats like golden dust motes in the thick, warm air. Ever since they turned the heating on, ever since Pos spent twenty minutes with the hairdryer on full blast trying to salvage the sodden books from under the roof leak, the air’s been just on the unpleasant side of humid, but he shows no discomfort, high notes unwavering. His voice rings clear as a bell, as ever, and though steadied and matured with age maintains a certain cherubic innocence. 

 

And to this day, fits Scripps’ music like a glove.

 

Scripps takes his eyes off the keys, just a moment- it’s a new song, and one he’s not entirely comfortable to busk without looking- to glance at Pos’ face. Perched delicately on the end of the piano stool as he is, it comes level with his own, upturned into the warm honey glow of the lamp atop the old upright Steinway. His eyes are closed, fair lashes fluttering with the song already memorised; he’d been utterly taken with it from the first listen. Lips, plush and delicately curved like dusky rose petals, shape the words with the care and reverence of a prayer. Like an oil painting, light dancing on arches and creases and the shimmer of gold and silver hair, he sits a perfect note of serenity against the background of dusty books, of buckets and newspapers, of cat hair dusted comforters and scuffed-up furniture from Saint Michael’s, elevating the mundanity of their little life to high art by his mere presence in it.

 

Scripps misses a note.

 

He hastily recovers, head ducked, feeling a blush rise in his cheeks and an embarrassed chuckle to his throat as Posner’s eyes flick open and turn on him.

 

When they linger there, longer than Scripps expects, he hazards another glance.

 

Pos meets it with narrow, knowing eyes, a wry twist at the corner of those lovely lips as he sings on, unperturbed and now, now more than before, Scripps can feel the words dancing against his heart, feels them as they truly are; for him. Only for him.

 

_ “I’ll prove it, you name it, ‘cause lovely… I love you…” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any songs on that list you really wanna see ficced? Any other songs you think are worthy of a place? Just wanna chat about these gay nerds? Comment, yo! They warm my lil gay heart <3


	2. I Work Nights and You Work Days, To Kill A King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not expect all new chapters to come in such quick succession, I am just inspired atm and also too happy to procrastinate from other things!!!!
> 
> Uuuuhhhhh no clear time frame for this one but they're defo younger this time, careers still getting established, all that. Enjoy <3

He wakes to the sound of the key in the lock, the stiff old door creaking open in the polite, apologetic manner to which he's become accustomed. He glances bleary eyed at the bedside table, and the illuminated digital face of the alarm clock. Six fifteen on the dot, as per.

  
  
Posner sighs, rubs his eyes, and calls out groggily: "Morning, Scrippsy."

 

A moment's silence follows. Then, apologetically, a gentle: "Mornin', love."

 

Scripps appears in the doorway, an awkward silhouette attempting to occupy as little space as possible. Even in the pale light bleeding from the kitchen Pos can see how tired he looks, tie loosed under crumpled collar, hair ruffled by the relentless runs of anxious fingers. Honestly, Pos can't think of many jobs he'd like _less_ than staying up all night sorting through depressing news stories, deciding which were the cream of the crop and worth publishing in today's depressing newspaper. He doesn't know how Scripps does it; or how much longer it can last.

  
  
Scripps gives him a tired smile, reading his thoughts as he rolls his stiff shoulder. "A foot in the door, Pos. S'all it is."

  
  
"I know," Pos murmurs. He glances at the clock again. Six sixteen. That gives him a good twenty nine minutes 'til he has to get out of bed, and so pats it invitingly. "Come on, you big lump- give us a cuddle."

  
  
Scripps wastes no time in doing exactly that- after all, they have precious little to spare. Pos thinks back now to the days they had a surplus of the stuff, long winter nights and endless summer afternoons, more lazy hours than they knew what to do with. Remembers when they slept side by side, and awoke within an hour of one another. How strange a thought that seems now. How novel the idea of more than a passing encounter, more than blurry glimpses caught in the half light, out-of-phase kisses pressed to dry lips. It's sad, to feel so very off-beat to the patterns of each other, to live with someone and yet never see them. Sometimes it feels like it’s always been, _will_ always be this way.

 

But one day they’ll find their rhythm again.

 

Scripps smiles, heavy-eyed, and kisses Posner’s nose lightly. “Good morning,” he mumbles again, face already softening into sleep.

 

Pos smiles, strokes his cheek, ignores for a time the minutes on the clock ticking by to the moment he has to face the day. “Goodnight…”

 

One day, once again, they'll be singing from the same song sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good boys, soft boys <333


	3. Saint Claude, Christine and the Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit bittersweet lads.

He looks different; older, weathered, faded ink of lives long past peeking out from beneath his rolled up sleeve as he clutches the bar for support. But his smile... his smile is the same. Tired, perhaps, but that does nothing to diminish the glow. Nothing to stop it reaching out to Posner’s own exhausted soul, a glint of youthful good nature, a flash of solidarity.

 

To think, if he'd not missed his usual train... The universe certainly works in funny ways. Maybe it was destiny. Or just about the happiest coincidence of his life.

 

Of course, it's not to last.

 

The announcer- garbled as always, discernible only to keen and experienced ears- signals an end to their brief encounter with the reminder of his approaching stop.

 

"Well... suppose this is me," he says, softly, as if that will make it less true.

 

Scripps nods, smile dimming just enough for Posner to notice- though likely not enough for anyone who doesn’t know his face better than their own. "Aye. Well... good to see you."

 

"Yes," Posner agrees emphatically, squeezing the bar. Trying not to think how easy it would be to slide it down onto Scripps’ hand instead. "Yes. Keep in touch, eh? Don't go disappearing again!"

 

"I'll call," says Scripps, gently as he does. "Promise."

 

Posner nods, but his heart is sinking. That's what they all said, the first time they went their separate ways. All the ' _keep in touch_ 'es and the ' _see you next Christmas_ 'es. Empty platitudes, the lot of them. He's as guilty as the rest: the truth is, adult life simply carries on regardless, best laid plans of mice and men be damned.

 

As the train slows to a halt, as the pneumatic hiss of the doors fills his ears like white noise, he feels it in his stomach. The gripping certainty that if he leaves now, it'll be like this never happened. He hesitates, the cold night air awaiting him, along with thoughts of his work, his books and music, all lying in wait for him to slip back into the fold.

 

 _Please_ , he begs Scripps with a smile and a wave goodbye. _Give me a reason to stay..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll leave you to decide what happened next <333


	4. Just the Way You Are, Billy Joel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some soft sweet married boys for y'all <3

"Oh, stop faffing about with it."

 

Scripps jolts out of his staring contest with his reflection, catching the eyes of Posner's instead. His hand, despite instructions, continues tugging fruitlessly at his hair. "In a mo, love- it's just not cooperating today."

 

Pos, snorting, pads up behind him. "That's never bothered you before," he says, lightly slapping Scripps' hand away to dig his own in and undo all his hard work.

 

"Oi!"

 

His husband chortles smugly, tucking his body up against Scripps' back and his chin over his shoulder. He has to stand on tip toes, just a little. "What? I like it how it is- looks rakish."

 

"'Rakish'?"

 

"Or like you fell asleep at a library table. Both  _equally_ sexy looks."

 

Rolling his eyes, Scripps reaches up to start again. 

 

Pos, frowning, tilts his head and catches his eye in the mirror. "What's got into you today?"

 

"Can't a bloke make an effort now and then?"

 

"Hm. Sounds exhausting. Good reason needed, I think."

 

As Posner's prods go, it's actually rather subtle. Yet inescapable. Thing is, Scripps isn't quite sure how to answer. Not sure how to express the fumbling feeling of inadequacy he'd felt just days ago on their anniversary, watching Pos cut such an elegant figure in his suit as he smiled like the rising sun. Not sure how to emphasise how much it grew and grew every time he looked at his own careworn face and greying hair in the mirror. How lazy and ordinary he feels, how Pos deserves someone who'll make an effort, instead of going three days at a time forgoing shaving and living on instant coffee and Pot Noodles. How much harder he needs to  _try_.

 

But the English language, though his passion and profession, tends to let him down on occasion.

 

Pos, however, has been fluent in the language of Scripps for many a year. 

 

Face softening, he tilts his head and presses a chaste kiss to Scripps' cheek, catching the very corner of his mouth with the edge of his own smile. "Oh, Scrippsy," he murmurs, wrapping his arms snugly round Scripps' waist as he meets his gaze once more in the mirror, eyes warm with understanding and a twinkle of flirtatious mirth. "You handsome fool." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wanted to write more here, but it just wouldn't happen? I think it wanted to end here. But rest assured, Pos definitely went on to make Scripps feel _very_ handsome and loved, and everything's alright. Sorry to not provide all the sweet praise and affirmations, I'll make it up to you one day!  <3


End file.
